When no-one's looking
by Fayza Banks
Summary: 'Missing scene' from Robot. If the Brigadier's arranged for the Doctor to have dinner at Buckingham Palace, it must take more than a few hours - so why is Sarah Jane still looking so stunned at the beginning of the final scene? Brigadier/Sarah Jane


"Mission accomplished!" said the Doctor, as the robot dissolved completely, "Coming, Harry? Brigadier?"

The Doctor and Harry turned and walked back towards Bessie, but the Brigadier stood where he was for a moment longer, taking stock and reflecting on the heartlessness of a system that would demand more paperwork for the destruction of the tank than it would for the men he had just lost. At least this time he wouldn't have to lie to their next of kin about how they died – the robot was a human creation, and besides it had grown too big in its final moments for anyone nearby to have missed it. No, the newspapers could have this one. Wouldn't hurt, for once, to have UNIT associated with an action to keep a Clear and Present Danger at bay.

A horn beeped, and the Brigadier jumped out of the way as the Doctor and Harry drove past. "See you back at the ranch!" called the tall, curly-haired figure behind the wheel, waving his hat as the car weaved off.

"Sooner you than me, Harry," he muttered, "This one's even crazier than the last."

As the sound of the engine died away, he heard footsteps behind him, and turned to find Benton and Miss Smith approaching. He thought Sarah Jane, fresh from her sojourn on the roof, looked a bit sick, and Benton confirmed his impression: "Miss Smith's feeling a bit shaky, sir. I thought I might buy her a drink at that pub we passed in the village?"

"Not while you're on duty you won't, Benton." The Brigadier waited a beat while the Warrant Officer attempted to cover his disappointment, then added: "Better call Base and get logged off first. And you'll have to take Miss Smith's car –" He raised his swagger-stick and his driver swung the Land Rover across for him to climb into, "- You can't take official transport to a Public House!"

"No sir. Thank you, sir!"

Benton was grinning. He'd have to fix that tomorrow.

For now – there was paperwork to do.

* * *

The Brigadier was still at his desk when the phone rang at 21.24 hours, and he snatched it up expecting the usual world-threatening emergency.

"It's Benton here, sir," said the voice at the other end of the line. There were pub noises in the background – laughter, shouts, some sort of ghastly music – and Benton's next words were lost amid the cacophony. "Sorry, sir, it's a bit noisy in here," he said, when told to repeat his message, "It's just – well – I could use some help. With Miss Smith."

A number of responses, several of them of a rather crude nature, chased through the Brigadier's head before he replied, carefully, "In what way, Benton?"

"Well, sir, I'm afraid she's had a bit too much to drink…"

"And whose fault would that be?"

"I didn't realise she couldn't hold her liquor, sir! I…"

"What have you been giving the poor girl? Alright, Benton, I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

Realising that it might attract attention if he walked into a country pub in his uniform, the Brigadier stopped off at his flat to change. It took him a few minutes to decide what to wear but, thinking back to his pub-crawling days in Scotland, hoped that his grey check shirt and blue trousers wouldn't be too far out of place.

When he arrived at the pub, he was depressed to discover that almost everyone else in sight – male and female – had shoulder-length hair, and he knew from the stares that followed him across the carpet that his own haircut had instantly pegged him as either cop or military. So much for ditching his uniform! Benton, the only other man in the place with short hair, had removed his own uniform jacket, but still looked as out of place as the Brigadier felt. At least he'd had the sense to find a quiet corner – he and Miss Smith were sitting at a small table in an alcove around the corner from the main bar area. Sarah Jane looked even sicker than she had when she'd been fetched down from the roof, but as he approached she looked up and gave him a woozy smile. "Hi Brig! God, you look sexy!" she said, rounding off with a hiccup and a giggle.

"I think we'd better get you home," he said, feeling it best to ignore both her remark and Benton's reaction to it. "John, why on earth didn't you just call a cab?"

"Because I don't know where she lives," replied Benton, "And Sarah can't remember!"

The Brigadier rolled his eyes. "What about her driving licence?"

"Not in her bag. I looked." Benton took Sarah Jane's left arm as the Brigadier gripped her right and they hauled her to her feet, Benton draping her bag over her shoulder before picking up his jacket from the back of his chair. "She must be picking up a few UNIT habits – no personal id, no clues about family – nothing. And I couldn't very well take her back to barracks with me, could I?"

"Hardly." As Sarah Jane hiccupped again and swayed against him, the Brigadier automatically put his arm around her waist to support her, while he wondered what exactly he was going to do now. Without consulting the files back at base, he didn't know where she lived either!

"'S nice," she said, putting her arms around him and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Where're we going?"

"Mr Benton is going to take your car back to HQ," he said, shooting a glare at Benton as the Warrant Officer's face threatened to break into a grin, "And I'm taking you home."

"Need to phone my editor," she slurred, as he half-carried her through the back entrance and into the car park, "Got a story he can run for once! First-hand account and everything!"

"Fine," he said, humouring her, and trying to ignore how good it felt to have an attractive young woman snuggled so close to him, "Just as soon as we get in." He helped her into the passenger seat of his MG and slammed the door. "I hope you're okay to drive, John," he said to Benton, "Call one of the drivers if you're over the limit."

"I just had a couple of beers, sir," said Benton, "I'll be fine. Miss Smith had the hard stuff."

"Yes, well if she's sick in my car, you'll be the one cleaning it," said the Brigadier. And that, he thought, as he climbed into the vehicle and turned the ignition, should take care of any more smiling.

* * *

Sarah Jane awoke in the dark, wondering why someone had glued deep-pile carpet to her tongue, and looked across at where her bedside clock ought to be. Her clock wasn't there, and she realised the ticking she could hear was coming from the left of the bed, not the right. Puzzled, she turned over, discovering from the luminous digital figures that it was 03.04, and realising from the faint glow around the clock that this was definitely not her room. She didn't have a luminous digital clock, or a bedside telephone – and why was she wearing her underslip and not her nightdress…?

Uh-oh.

Propping herself on one elbow, Sarah brushed her hair out of her eyes and reached for the glass of water that had been thoughtfully left next to the clock. She was getting snippets of memory now, and rather wishing she wasn't. John Benton – the pub – the brandy – the… She sat up slowly and put a hand over her eyes as she remembered. The Brigadier.

The _sexy _Brigadier.

Oh Lord, had she really said that? Not that it hadn't been true but… oh dear.

Vowing she would never touch another drop, Sarah climbed out of bed and went in search of the bathroom, hoping she'd be able to find it without having to switch any lights on. While her head didn't hurt _too_ much, she wasn't sure she could cope with facing herself in the mirror by the light of a sixty-watt bulb. Not just yet anyway.

She could just about make out the door by the glow from the clock, and shuffled toward it. Groping her way out of the room, she felt solid wall to her left, turned right, and had walked no more than three paces before her bare toes connected with something solid.

"Ow! Dammit…!"

She stretched her hands out in front of her, felt nothing, bent lower and discovered a padded seat and a chair back. As she did so, there was a rustle and a creak from somewhere to her left, and then a lamp was clicked on and she squeezed her eyes shut, stood up straight, then squinted one eye open. She closed it again fast, then slowly opened both eyes, blinked, and made a conscious effort to prevent her mouth falling open. She was afraid if she didn't she might say something _really_ inappropriate.

The Brigadier pulled his hand from the lamp he had just switched on and sat up on the sofa he'd been lying on. His hair was mussed, his jaw had a three a.m. shadow and he was wearing – so far as she could tell – a sleeping bag. He looked absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and it took her several seconds to push her immediate thoughts aside and come up with something to say that didn't involve the words 'fuck' and 'me'.

"I… um… sorry, I… just wanted the bathroom. I didn't mean to wake you," she managed.

"Round the chair, past the sideboard, next right," he offered, pointing the way. "Are you hungry? I don't have much of a culinary repertoire, but I can manage scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea if you'd like."

"I think I've already inconvenienced you enough," she said, feeling her face go hot as he smiled at her, "I'm so sorry, Brigadier."

His smile broadened, and she felt her knees going. "I think under the current circumstances that's a bit formal," he said, "My name's…"

"Alistair. Yes, I know." She hobbled toward the bathroom door, favouring the foot where she'd banged her toe, then paused just before she went in. "Oh God, I didn't throw up in your car, did I?"

"No. " His mouth twitched in that way he had when he was trying not to laugh. "You made it as far as the kerb. Fortunately. After that, you passed out on me." He jerked his chin in the direction she was heading. "I sponged your dress. It's hanging up in there. Should be dry by morning."

She gave him a grateful nod and a weak smile. "Me too."

Emerging from the bathroom, Sarah followed the smell of cooking to the kitchen, where she found the Brigadier – Alistair, she reminded herself – standing by the stove in his bathrobe, stirring a saucepan. "Won't be a minute," he said, glancing round as he heard her bare feet pattering on the tiles, "Put that on, and take a seat." He let go of his spoon just long enough to point at a towelling bathrobe that was draped over the back of a chair and, as she put it on and found it fitted, Sarah wondered briefly how many other women had already worn it. Best not go there, she told herself, firmly, sneaking another admiring glance at his profile before giving herself a mental smack and sitting down in the chair the robe had been draped over.

The tiny kitchen table was fixed to the wall and had just enough room for two people to sit opposite each other. There was a cork board attached to the wall above it, and Sarah looked over the items pinned to it: a postcard of Brighton beach, a couple of utility phone numbers on small cards, a shopping list with 'beans' crossed off and 'spaghetti hoops' written over it, and a small photograph of a smiling blonde girl of about six who was pointing a finger at the space where her front teeth had been. Next to the photo and dominating the lower section of the board was a crayon drawing of a small stick person in pink and a larger stick person in a brown outfit with yellow buttons. The words 'Me and Daddy' staggered across the top of the paper in alternating shades of blue and red.

"Admiring my daughter's art work?" Alistair was smiling as he placed a plate of egg on toast in front of her.

"She's very talented," said Sarah, returning the smile, "She'll be pretty too, once her teeth grow back."

"I expect they already have," he said, and his smile faded as he put down two mugs of steaming tea and took the seat opposite, "I haven't seen her for over a month. Still, she should be coming over on Sunday, I hope – assuming nothing unspeakable tries to invade the planet between now and then."

"Hence the spaghetti hoops?" Sarah spoke around a mouthful of food, jabbing her empty fork in the direction of the shopping list as she spoke.

He nodded. "Favourite food of the moment, apparently. And even I can manage to cook them!"

"Well, I can vouch for your eggs on toast," said Sarah, concentrating on cutting another bite so that she didn't have to look across the table into his eyes, which seemed to have taken on a smoulder she'd not noticed before. Maybe it was the flourescent lighting. Or maybe not. She munched for a minute, waiting till she'd swallowed her food before speaking again. "I didn't know you had a child. What's her name?"

"Kate." The smile returned to his face as he looked at the photo again. "She's the best thing that ever happened to me. I just wish… well, spilt milk and all that. Do you want any sauce?"

The abrupt change of conversational direction told Sarah the subject of his family was closed, and she didn't push. "Tastes just fine as it is," she said. The stray thought 'I'll bet you do too' popped unbidden into her head and she took a swallow of her tea to cover her blushes. "You should have put me on the sofa," she said.

"In case you hadn't noticed, Sarah, I'm in the army. I've slept in worse places than my own living room, believe me. Some of the places I've been to, you wouldn't believe."

"I can relate to that," she said, "If you'd ever been in the TARDIS, you'd know…"

"Oh, but I have." He was giving her that knowing smirk again, the one that challenged and intrigued, and made her realise how little she really knew about him. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Sarah Jane tightened her fingers around her utensils to prevent herself reaching over to grab his bathrobe and pull him into a kiss.

Then he drained his tea and stood up, moving the conversation on as though that dangerous spark of attraction had never been. "According to the Doctor – all three of him – we ended up in an anti-matter universe inside a black hole. I think." He checked she'd finished her own tea before taking both the mugs to the sink and rinsing them under the tap,

"How do you mean, three Doctors? How many of them have there been?"

He shrugged, and leaned back against against the draining board, folding his arms. "The one we've got now is the fourth I've seen, believe it or not – but I've no idea whether there were more before them, or how many there might be to come. Maybe even the Doctor doesn't know."

The concepts he'd described made Sarah's head spin, and she resolved to pursue the conversation further in the morning. Now was definitely not the time for anti-matter universes and an infinite number of Doctors. She finished chewing her last mouthful of toast and put her knife and fork across the plate. "That really was good," she said, getting to her feet, "Much better than I deserve after the trouble I've put you to."

"Leave the plate," he said, ushering her back into the main room and switching off the kitchen light, "I'll deal with it tomorrow. You should get back to bed."

Perhaps it was the way he said 'bed'. Perhaps it was the way she could feel how close behind her he was. Or perhaps the alcohol hadn't quite finished with her yet. Whatever it was, she decided it would be much more fun to give in and stop fighting it. Halting by the bedroom door, she turned and looked up at him. "Alistair, what I said in the pub…"

"Oh, please don't take it back!" She could hear the laughter in his voice, "You've no idea what a boost to my ego that was. Even if you were too drunk to know what you were saying."

"I wasn't going to take it back," she said, putting a hand on his chest just where the folds of his bathrobe formed a 'v' over his heart, "And I'm not drunk now."

He took a breath, but whatever it was he was going to say she didn't want to hear it, and covered his mouth with hers before he could speak. She felt his arms slide around her as he kissed back and she put her arms around his neck and pressed against him, giving a little moan of pleasure as she felt him react to her attentions.

As he backed her into the bedroom, he pulled his lips from hers for a moment, just long enough to murmur, "Miss Smith, this is a really bad idea."

"I know, Brigadier." It was her turn to smirk. "Let's do it anyway."

* * *

Sarah dropped the keys into the top drawer of the Brigadier's desk, grateful that, for once, his office was empty. When she'd emerged from his shower that morning, he'd already been pulling on his uniform jacket. "Tea's brewing," he'd said, "And help yourself to Corn Flakes. I've ordered a taxi for you, it'll be here in half-an-hour ." Then he'd stroked her mouth with a thumb and bent to kiss her, rather more gently than he had last night. "Sorry to run out on you, but one of us has to be on time, and I rather think it had better be me." Then he'd smoothed his jacket, pulled on his cap, picked up his gloves and headed for the door. "Keys are on the sideboard," he'd said, "Lock up when you leave, would you, and let me have them back when no-one's looking?" Sarah wasn't sure if that was for the benefit of his reputation or hers, but she had to admit he was right: it would never do for her to turn up at UNIT HQ, the morning after the night before, in the commanding officer's car.

Now, as she shut the drawer, she noticed the pile of newspapers on top of the desk, and the headline on the topmost one: 'UNIT Troops Stop Robot Rampage'.

It was in the papers?!

Slowly, Sarah sifted through the pile. The robot was front page news on every single paper, the only difference being the luridness and size of the headlines. She backed away from the desk feeling dazed. Yesterday, she'd been at the centre of the robot story – a journalist with a first-hand account, who could have put a positive spin on the robot's side of things. Since then, she'd had too much to drink with John Benton, and indulged in several hours of sheet-scorching sex with a confident, experienced, considerate lover in the form of Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart. She'd given only a passing thought to filing her robot report, and she'd been too far gone at that point to string a coherent sentence together. Nor was there any point in typing it up now – the moment had passed, and her Editor was likely to be firing her at any second.

What on earth was she going to do now?

The door behind her burst open, startling her out of her reverie. "Sarah!" It was the Doctor, his scarf trailing like a multi-coloured flag, arms windmilling in what seemed to be his usual manner. "Sarah?" He offered her a jelly baby, of all things, and when she ignored it, he went to put to something in the corner by the TARDIS. "I had to do it, you know," he said, turning as he straightened up.

Sarah was thrown for a moment, then realised the Doctor was still concerned about her sympathy for the robot.

This time she answered him, saying all the things she should have written in her non-existent article, and she was surprised when he agreed that it was almost human. And then he unwittingly presented her with the ideal solution to her 'what on earth…' problem.

"You know, what you need is a change," he said, "How about a little trip in the tardis?" He wittered on about the events the Brigadier had arranged for him to attend, and offered the jelly babies again. This time she took one. Another adventure with the Doctor – he was right, it was just what she needed!

With a smile and a skip, she crossed the room towards the Police Box …


End file.
